


The Most Confusing Afternoon of Jim Gordon's Confusing Life

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://kingcarp.tumblr.com">kingcarp</a> requested some femBruce, and this little musing is the result. For those interested, my vision of femBruce is forever and always <a href="http://snackage.tumblr.com">snackage</a>'s amazing sketch <a href="http://fabula-unica.tumblr.com/post/85828990855/snackage-so-cornflakepizza-and-i-were-chatting">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Confusing Afternoon of Jim Gordon's Confusing Life

"Where's Bruce?"

The striking woman at the monitors—sitting in Bruce's chair, no less—sighed impatiently, like this was a conversation she had already had several times today. There was something familiar about that irritated noise. "Right here," she said.

"What do you mean?" Jim looked from one to the other of them. Nightwing had his arms crossed, and there was the strangest expression on his face. Like he was worried about something, but also more than a little amused, too. Red Robin and Alfred were over in the Cave's medical bay, poring over screens and bending over something laid on a table, clearly involved in some sort of puzzle. And then there was this strange woman in Bruce's chair, whom no one was treating like she was strange at all.

"What do you mean he's right here," Jim repeated. "Is Bruce all right?"

"He's fine," she said. "Jim, it's me. It's Bruce."

"What's Bruce?"

"I am." The impatient noise was back.

"Look," Nightwing said. "Before this becomes some sort of nightmarish Who's On First routine, maybe the Commissioner needs some clarification. Batman was hit by. . . I'm not exactly sure how to explain it."

"I took a blast from an alien weapon yesterday," the woman said, à propos of nothing, because who gave a shit, he was worried about Bruce.

"He was hit, what do you mean, he was _hit_. Is he all right? Is he in the hospital? Someone's going to tell me what's going on right damn now, which is also about the time someone's going to tell me who the hell _she_ is."

"Jim," the woman said, and he couldn't shake the feeling, the terrible familiarity with which she said his name. He knew that steady gray-eyed gaze, he knew he knew it. He knew he knew her. He just couldn't place her. "Jim, I know this is. . . a bit hard to understand. But the League is encountering alien tech every day that we're not equipped to respond to, and whose function we can only dimly grasp. This particular weapon we're talking about, and that Alfred and Red Robin are examining now, appears to be a chromosomal scrambler of some sort."

"Chromosomal scrambler," Jim repeated. He had his hands on his hips now, still looking from one to the other of them. "Oh Jesus," he said, with a detective's intuitive leap. The gray-eyed gaze. The ease and command with which she sat in Bruce's chair, sitting with her long legs not crossed, but open, like a man's. He looked to Nightwing again, for confirmation. "Please tell me this is some sort of joke. This is not for real, right? I took some hallucinogens with my coffee this morning. That's what's going on here."

"It's real," the woman— _Bruce?_ — said. "We're working on a fix, but I'm afraid my particular issue can't be our focus right now. We need to talk about the real reason you came here. We need to move ahead with the Polazzi family infiltration. That's what's important right now."

He definitely caught a roll of the eyes from Nightwing at that one. Jim was still standing there gaping like a hooked fish. "Well maybe," he spluttered, "just _maybe_ , if you weren't always running off to play space cowboy but could manage to stay in Gotham where you _belong_ , these sorts of things wouldn't happen, and we actually _could_ focus on important things like the goddamn Polazzis! Because are you fucking serious right now, you're telling me you're a—a—a. . ."

"Female," Bruce supplied, and there was no question it was him, the slice of that voice and twist of that mouth could be no one else's. "That's the word you're looking for. So perhaps you could stop acting like I have a rare and terminal disease, and take a look at some of this intel Nightwing gathered day before yesterday."

"Sweet Christ on triscuits," Jim said. He stumbled to the nearest available chair and rested his forehead on his hand. Bruce was picking up a file from the other side of the cabinets. He—she— _whoever_ , was. . . beyond his ability to describe, and Jim was confident that if a chromosomal scrambler from outer space hit him on his way back from work this afternoon, it would not be turning him into six feet of whippet-lean black-haired gorgeousness, because that was the sort of thing that only happened to Bruce. That was really the goddamn disturbing part of this whole thing, was how much she managed to look like Bruce, and how un-fucking-believably gorgeous she was. Shoulder-length black-hair, but the same slant of brow and thrust of jaw, the same uncanny eyes. Bruce was wearing a black turtleneck and black pants—in other words, pretty much what he wore every day, down in the Cave—and yet somehow, it all looked indescribably different. Bruce's body was. . . Holy Christ.

"Jim," Bruce said sharply, as though he knew exactly what Jim was thinking. "The file." Nightwing turned aside to hide a smile like he, too, was pretty sure what the Commissioner had been thinking. 

"Right," Jim muttered. "The file." He flipped the pages of the folder, his eyes not really taking in anything. He couldn't stop sneaking glances at Bruce, who was watching him with narrowed gaze. Finally he closed the file.

"Look," he said. "I can't concentrate on this. It looks like squiggles on a goddamn page right now. Bruce. When are you gonna be. . . I mean. . . can they. . . fix you?"

Bruce looked up from the papers spread on the table. "Alfred has been monitoring my vitals all day long. I'm in perfect health. But that wasn't what you meant, was it. Jim. I am not broken, damaged or otherwise incapacitated. I am currently, and probably for the foreseeable future, female. Do we have a problem here?"

There was silence in the Cave, and he became aware that Alfred and Red Robin were listening, over in the medical bay. "No, we do not," he replied quietly. "Bruce, you know me, and you know I'm the last person to regard a woman as a being of diminished capacity. I don't even think everyone who starts out life female needs to end up that way, and if that's you, then great, more power to you, I'll help Alfred take in the suit. But can we stop pretending it's normal for this to happen in an _afternoon_? Can we just—for the love of God, Bruce, it's a little hard to think about anything else right now, all right?"

Bruce sat in a chair heavily. Well, a little less heavily than usual, having shed about a hundred pounds, conservatively. He moved like himself though, and it was disconcerting to see the typically masculine gestures and movements in someone so. . . not. Bruce was tapping his finger on the arm of the chair. "You're right," he said finally.

"Now I know that zapper got more than your chromosomes."

"I mean you're right that we need to be factoring my situation into our plans, not treating it as a separate condition. Alfred, did you cancel my opera ball tickets for tomorrow night?"

"I did, sir. I'm sure you'll forgive the liberty, but I did think your appearance in a black velvet evening gown might occasion comment. I trust you agree."

"I do. That's exactly why Bruce Wayne will be gifting his tickets to the Police Commissioner for the night."

"Oh no," said Jim. "Don't tell me."

"The opera ball is the perfect opportunity to tail Bruno Polazzi, only I won't be able to do it—or anyway, Bruce Wayne won't. The only way I'm getting in there is as somebody's date. I think the Commissioner is about to get lucky."

"How lucky," Jim said, rubbing at his forehead. 

"Lucky enough to get me in the door. We can split up from there, but not so much as to arouse suspicion."

The forehead rubbing did not seem to be having any effect on the migraine beginning to pulse in his left carotid. "And you don't think it's going to arouse suspicion when a shlumpy middle-aged man shows up with. . . you."

Bruce's look was sharp. "You're not shlumpy," he said. "You clean up just fine. You've got a nice tux, and you'll be more than acceptable. Besides, there are plenty of women interested enough in power to date the Police Commissioner, even with the ill-considered facial hair."

"I. . . thanks, I think."

Bruce was rolling up the papers and stacking the folders. "We're agreed, then. We go ahead with our original plan, only modified. I'm going to need something appropriate to wear, however. Alfred?"

"I'm sure I can find something suitable, sir. If you trust my taste, that is."

Bruce gave a snort that Jim wasn't even going to try to read. "I'll be in the showers," he said, headed down to the lower level of the Cave. Jim watched him go, and then caught himself when he realized he was checking out his friend's ass. If Alfred had been responsible for finding those pants, the man had a disturbingly keen eye for women's clothing. 

"So who's gonna tell him?" Nightwing said. He had his feet propped on a chair and was swinging an escrima stick. "Because it's clear he has no idea."

"No idea about what?" Jim asked.

"That he's hot as blistering fuck, that's what. He's got to know before he walks into that ballroom tomorrow night and gets groped by five hundred drunken mafiosi. And I'm just saying, it's not going to be me that tells him. My therapy bill is high enough as it is, let's not make it worse."

Red Robin glared from under a shaggy fall of hair. "And what exactly do you think mine looks like?" 

"Fair point. Alfred?"

"I would like to point out that I shopped for women's underthings today. 34B, as it turns out, in case you were wondering. As the expression goes—so done, I can't even."

"Also an excellent point. Looks like it's you, Commissioner."

"I don't understand what's happening in my life. I have a date with Batman, and I now know his cup size. Can someone please remove my piece before I become a danger to myself and others?"

Nightwing leaned back in his chair with a grin. "It's all right, Commissioner. I'm sure Tim and Alfred will have this all figured out in a few days' time—and if they don't, I'm sure the geniuses at STAR labs can find a way to restore Bruce's normal body without causing a quantum singularity. So until then, I say relax and enjoy the ride. 'Cause I'm not gonna lie, I kinda want to see Bruce in an evening gown, and you better believe there are going to be pictures. Alfred? Can we request something in a plunging neckline, maybe an off the shoulder?"

"Therapy bill," Red Robin admonished.

Jim put his head in both his hands this time. "God help me," he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, more fic and fannish discussion can be found [on my tumblr](http://fabula-unica.tumblr.com).


End file.
